“Roger, I hate you!” Margaret gasped in a stifled voice, hurrying with burning cheeks out of the room.
“Portrait of a lady on her way to immurement,” murmured Roger thoughtfully, gazing after her flying figure.
“Damn you, Roger!” spluttered the indignant Anthony, no less puce. “What the deuce do you want to go and –”
“Anthony, I think it’s time we were going,” Roger pointed out gently.
This time Anthony really did go, not only out of the house but right down the drive, over the road and on to the cliffs.
Roger gave him ten minutes to work off steam and simmer down again; then he got on with the business in hand.
“Now, look here, Anthony, drop all that and tell me this – what deductions did you draw at our little tea party?”
“What deductions?” Anthony said a little reluctantly. “I don’t know that I drew any. Did you?”
“One or two. That the lady we had the pleasure of meeting wouldn’t be at all averse to becoming Mrs Vane now that the post is vacant, for one thing.”
“How on earth could you tell that, Roger?”
“It was sticking out in lumps all over her for anybody who had the eyes to see. In fact it seemed to me that she wasn’t even troubling to hide it. But was the doctor-man equally minded? Now that I’m not nearly so sure about.”
“You think he isn’t?”
“No, I don’t say that for a minute. What I do say is that he is very much better at hiding his feelings. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all, except that he’s fond of Margaret and anxious to show it. The only really significant thing about him was the fact of his asking us to supper like that.”
“You mean only four or five days after his wife’s death?”
“Exactly. Now what does that show?”
“That he’s not any too cut up about it.”
“Precisely. In other words, I should say, he knew his wife’s true character. And not being sorry she’s dead, he’s not going to pretend that he is; that’s how the man strikes me.”
“Yes,” Anthony said slowly. “I think I agree with you.”
“Nor is the woman. That was obvious enough. He may even be taking his cue from her. She’s without doubt the stronger character of the two.”
“Is she?”
“Oh, yes. Then there’s another thing. Does the woman know Mrs Vane’s real character too? On the whole I should be inclined to say yes. She’s pretty sharp.”
“That might even have started her being keen on him,” Anthony pointed out; “if she really is. I mean, it must have been a pretty ghastly sight to see a decent chap like that tied up to a little rotter of a woman, mustn’t it?”
“That’s a very shrewd idea,” Roger agreed. “Yes, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that isn’t how things did happen. Gradually, of course; these things always do. I’m not hinting that there was an intrigue between them or anything like that; I don’t for a moment think there was. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if the doctor hasn’t got the least idea about her feelings even now. But he’ll find himself marrying her one day for all that. She’s a woman of unusually strong mind and she’s made it up on that particular point all right, I wouldn’t mind betting.”
“She had large feet,” said Anthony quite irrelevantly.
“So have a number of people. You, for instance. Did it strike you whether she liked Margaret?”
“She’d be a fool if she didn’t,” said Anthony with complete conviction.
“Do refrain from being maudlin, Anthony. Personally, I thought she didn’t. She was inclined to be peremptory and not a little bossy, did you notice? But jealousy would quite well account for that. After all, Margaret is young and pretty and she’s neither. Did anything else strike you about Dr Vane? About his character, or anything like that?”
Anthony considered. “I should think he’s probably got the very devil of a temper,” he decided.
“You take the words out of my mouth. That’s precisely what struck me. I don’t suppose it has any significance at all, but it’s a point that we might well keep before us. Dr Vane has the very devil of a temper. Now, about that invitation, I don’t... Hullo! Isn’t that the inspector on the road? Yes, it is; I’d know that bulky form anywhere. Let’s cut across and see if he’s got any news. By the way, congratulations, Anthony.”
“What on?”
“Not saying anything to Margaret about friend Colin’s letter. A most admirable piece of self-restraint.”
A lusty hail from Roger brought the inspector to a standstill. He halted and waited for them to catch up with him.
“It’s a hot day for running about, gentlemen,” he greeted them mopping his large red face. “Uncommonly hot.”
“You’re right, Inspector. And has virtue brought its own reward, or have you got any news?”
“I have got some news, sir, I’m glad to say. I’ve suceeded in locating the gentleman who wrote that letter. Been a bit of a job, but I’m pretty sure I’ve found him this time.”
“You have, have you? I say, that’s good! Who is he?”
“Gentleman by the name of Colin Woodthorpe; son of a Sir Henry Woodthorpe who’s got a big place between here and Sandsea. I thought of going round to call on him this evening.”
“Good,” said Roger promptly. “May I come?”
“It’s a bit irregular, sir.”
“I know it is. Frightfully irregular. But you do owe me something over the letter, don’t you?”
“Very well, sir,” the inspector grinned. “I can see you’re determined to come, so I suppose I shall have to take you with me. But it’ll have to be as that personal friend of mine, mind, not as a newspaperman.”
“On my oath!” said Roger piously. “In any case I wouldn’t... Oh, Heavens, talk hard and don’t let me be buttonholed. This is the most persistent talker in the south of England coming along the road towards us.”
“When you’re in the north, Roger,” Anthony amended humorously.
“His name is the Rev. Samuel Meadows,” Roger went on to the inspector. “He caught me on the cliffs this morning and held me for half an hour by the clock. The Ancient Mariner couldn’t make a match of it with him.”
In some curiosity the other two watched the little clerical figure approach. He smiled benignly as he recognised Roger and touched the wide brim of his hat in a somewhat expansive gesture, but made no attempt to speak.
“Saved!” Roger murmured dramatically as they passed him. “Friends, I thank you!”
But the inspector did not smile. His brow was corrugated and he was tugging at his long-suffering moustache.
“Now, where the dickens,” he remarked very thoughtfully to his boots, “have I seen that face before?”
chapter eleven
Inspector Moresby Conducts an Interview
Couston Hall, the home of Sir Henry and Lady Woodthorpe, was a stolidly built Georgian house, with the usual aspect of square solidity so happily typical of its period. It stood in its own grounds of nine or ten acres, and as Roger and the inspector made their way up the trim drive the setting sun was burnishing the mellow brick of its front to a deeper red and slanting over the velvety expanse of lawn, unprofaned by tennis nets or chalk lines, which faced it across the broad carriage-sweep.
“By Jove!” Roger exclaimed softly. “It’s a fine picture, isn’t it? There’s something about these big Georgian country houses, you know, Inspector, that does stir the imagination. Can’t you just see that carriage-sweep stiff with huntsmen in red coats and jolly red faces, all engulfing a couple of gallons of home-brew before going off to give Reynard the run of his life?”
“It’s a tidy bit of property,” the inspector agreed. “But they’re child’s play for burglars, these old houses are.” To every man his own point of view.
“I wonder what it is that always make one associate Georgian houses with hunting scenes,” Roger mused. “Must be the red, I suppose. Red brick, red coats, red faces. Yes, r
ed seems to be the key colour of the times. What would Rowlandson have done if there’d been no red on his palette? He’d have had to draw people without any noses at all.”
They reached the white porch, and the inspector placed a large thumb over the un-Georgian electric bell push. “You’ll remember, Mr Sheringham, won’t you?” he said half apologetically. “We’re here on official business, and it’s me who’s got to do all the talking.”
“Did I or did I not give you my solemn word, Inspector?” queried Roger in hurt tones. “Besides, I would have you know that my nickname at school was ‘Oyster’. ‘Oyster Sheringham’, I was invariably called.”
“There’s often an untrue word spoken in jest,” murmured the inspector with a face of preternatural innocence.
Before Roger could reply suitably the door was opened by a large and fishlike butler.
There are few men in this country who can remain their normal selves in face of a truly fishlike specimen of the English butler. Roger’s admiration of his companion increased almost visibly as he watched him confront this monumental dolphin (that was the word which rose unbidden into Roger’s mind the moment the door opened) without so much as a blench.
“I want to see Mr Colin Woodthorpe,” said the inspector heartily, in a voice free from the slightest tremor. “Is he at home?”
“I will enquire, sir,” returned the dolphin coldly, eyeing their dusty appearance with obvious pain, and made as if to close the door. “Would you care to leave your name?”
The inspector placed a large foot in the aperture. “You needn’t put on any of those frills with me,” he said with the utmost cheerfulness. “You know whether the gentleman I want to see is at home or not.” He paused and looked the other in the eye. “Is he?” he shot out with startling abruptness.
Roger watched the dolphin’s reaction to this mode of attack with some interest. His gills opened and closed rapidly, and a look of distinct alarm appeared in his pale sandy eyes. Roger had never seen an alarmed butler before, and he certainly never expected to see one again.
“He – he was in to dinner, sir,” gasped the dolphin, almost before he knew what he was doing.
“Ha!” observed the inspector, evidently satisfied. “Then you cut along, my man, and tell him that Inspector Moresby of Scotland Yard would like a word or two with him. And you needn’t shout it out for all the rest of the world to hear, understand?” It appeared that the dolphin understood. “Very well. Now show us somewhere where we can wait.”
The chastened dolphin led them into a small room on the left of the big hall, the gunroom. As the door closed behind him, Roger seized the inspector’s hand and wrung it reverently. “Now I can see how you can arrest seventeen armed criminals in the most dangerous dive in Limehouse with nothing but a walking stick and a safety pin,” he said in awestruck tones. ‘ “My man!’ And yet the heavens remain intact!”
“I never stand nonsense from butlers,” remarked the inspector modestly.
Roger shielded his eyes and groaned.
Colin Woodthorpe, who made his appearance a couple of minutes later, proved to be a pleasant-looking young man of some five- or six-and-twenty, with fair hair and a sanguine complexion, big and sturdy; he was wearing a dinner jacket, but Roger instinctively saw him in gaiters and riding breeches. He was perfectly self-possessed.
“Inspector Moresby?” he asked with a little smile, picking out Roger’s companion without hesitation.
“That’s me, sir,” assented the inspector in his usual genial tones. “Sorry to bother you, but duty’s duty, as you know. I hope that butler of yours didn’t make too much bother. I told him not to. Scotland Yard has a nasty sound in the ears of the old people, I know.”
“Oh, no,” laughed the young man. “As a matter of fact I was alone, though it was very kind of you to think of warning him. Well, what’s it all about, Inspector? Sit down, won’t you? Cigarette?”
“Well, thank you, sir,” The inspector helped himself to a cigarette from the other’s case and disposed his bulk in a comfortable leather-covered armchair. Roger followed suit.
As the young man sat down, the inspector edged his chair round so as to be able to look him directly in the face. “As I said, sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s this matter of Mrs Vane’s death I’m looking into.” He paused significantly.
Roger could have sworn that a look of apprehension flitted for an instant across the young man’s face, but his voice when he spoke after only a second’s hesitation was perfectly under control.
“Oh, yes?” he said easily (almost too easily, Roger felt). “And why have you come to me?”
The inspector’s hand shot out towards him, holding the piece of paper he had already drawn from his pocket. “To ask you to explain this, sir, if you please,” he said very much more brusquely.
Colin Woodthorpe looked at the paper curiously; then, as his brain took in the significance of the words written upon it he flushed deeply. “Where – how did you get hold of this?” he asked in a voice that was none too steady.
The inspector explained briefly that the original had been found among the rocks close to where the body was lying. “I want you to explain it, if you please, sir,” he concluded. “I need not point out to you its importance as far as we are concerned. You ask the lady to meet you, and on the very day you arrange she meets her death. If you kept the appointment, it seems to us that you should be able to shed some light on that death. I need hardly ask you whether you did keep it?”
The young man had recovered himself to some extent. He frowned and crossed his legs. “Look here, I don’t understand this. I thought Mrs Vane’s death was an accident. They’ve had the inquest, and that was the verdict. Why are you ‘looking into it’, as you say?”
“Well, sir,” the inspector returned in his usual cheerful tones, “I came here to ask questions, not to answer them. Still, I don’t mind answering that one. The fact of the matter is that we’re not at all sure that Mrs Vane’s death was an accident.”
There was no doubt that the young man was genuinely startled. “Good Heavens!” he cried. “What on earth do you mean? What else could it be?”
The inspector looked at him quizzically. “Well – it might have been suicide, mightn’t it?” he said slowly.
“Suicide!” Woodthorpe sat up with a jerk and his rosy face paled. “You don’t – you don’t really mean to say you think it might have been, Inspector?”
“Have you any particular reason for thinking it might have been, sir?” the inspector shot out.
The young man sat back in his chair again, moistening his lips with a quick movement of his tongue. “No, of course not,” he muttered. “I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, you do, sir,” retorted the inspector grimly. “Now look here, Mr Woodthorpe,” he went on in a more kindly voice. “I want you to put down your cards on the table and tell me the whole story. Believe me, it’s far and away the best thing to do, from your point of view as well as ours. It’s bound to come out in the end you know. And –”
Woodthorpe had risen to his feet. “Excuse me, Inspector,” he interrupted stiffly, “I must repeat that I don’t understand you. I have nothing to tell you. Is that all you wished to see me about?”
He walked towards the door as if inviting the other to rise and take his departure, but the inspector blatantly ignored the hint.
“Of course I know what you’re feeling, sir,” he remarked. “You’re trying to shield the lady’s reputation, I know that. Well, the best way you can do so is to answer my questions. I’ve got to get my information, and if I get it from you we may be able to keep it between ourselves; if you force me to try other sources, I’m afraid there’s no hope of keeping it dark. At present (if you haven’t given yourselves away elsewhere) there’s nobody but you and us who knows that you were Mrs Vane’s lover.”
Woodthorpe looked at him steadily. “Inspector,” he said slowly, “may I say that you are being offensive?”
; “Can’t help that, sir, I’m afraid,” replied the inspector cheerily. “And if you’re not going to be open with me, I dare say you’ll find me more offensive still. And you can’t bluff me, sir, you know. Not that I blame you for trying; I’d do the same myself for a lady I’d got into a mess with.” The inspector’s choice of words may not have been fortunate, but his sentiment was admirable. “Still, you’ve given yourself away too much in this note, you know, sir – besides what I’ve been able to find out elsewhere. For instance, I know that Mrs Vane had been your mistress for some little time, that you’d got tired of her and were trying to break with her, and that she was threatening you if you did. I know all the essentials, you see. It’s only a few details I want you to tell me, and I’d much rather have them from you than from anybody else.”
The young man had put up a good fight, but it was plain to Roger that he now accepted defeat. Indeed, it was difficult to see what else he could do. Dropping back into his chair, he acknowledged the truth of the inspector’s words by a tacit hiatus. “If I answer your questions,” he said curtly, “will you treat what I tell you as private and confidential?”
“As far as I possibly can, sir,” the inspector promised. “It’s no wish of mine to drag out unnecessary scandals, or make things awkward which might have been better left undisturbed.”
“I can’t see what you’re driving at, in any case,” Woodthorpe said wearily, lighting another cigarette. “Mrs Vane is dead, isn’t she? What does it matter whether her death was accident or suicide? It can’t help her to have these things raked over.”
“It’s my duty to look into it, sir,” replied the inspector primly. “Now, when I mentioned the word ‘suicide’ just now you were startled, weren’t you? Did it cross your mind that she might have killed herself because you insisted on breaking with her, and she didn’t want to let you go?”
Roger Sheringham and the Vane Mystery Page 10
